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Updated: June 3, 2025
I thanked heaven the world had become suddenly a blank to you. I prayed hard you might never recover your senses again, or at least your memory. And now that you're slowly returned to life once more, against all hope or fear, I'm heartily glad it's in this peculiar way. I'm heartily glad all the past's blotted out for you. You can't understand that, my child? Ah, no, very likely not.
Pascoe wouldn't anyway. You've got a past! in quod, I should think my past's all right. I've a jolly good mind to let you do your worst after all, I've got the will. And by george! now I come to think of it, you can do your worst! Tell what you like tomorrow morning. I shall tell 'em what you are a scoundrel."
They separated with the smiling faces of those who have added an evening altogether pleasant to memory's store of the past's happy hours that roomy storehouse which is all too empty even where the life has been what is counted happy. He insisted on sending her home in his auto, himself taking a taxi to the Players' where the supper was given.
As each steel prow grazes the island strands Still ring the sweet Venetian voices clear, And wondering wanderers from far, free lands Entranced look round, enchanted listen here. From the far lands of liberty they come England's proud children and her younger race; Those who possess the Past's most noble home, And those who claim the Future's boundless space. Pitying they stand.
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